It feels like March,
Only the roses
Are not bitten by snow.
The melting smell in the air,
The sky grey with a margin
Of translucent sun.
Someone is born,
Only to walk
To the end of their life.
It feels like joy,
Only the smiles
Have thorns in them.
Someone is born,
And all the world getting ready
For a killing.
Petals dew-dappled,
Roses stand in mid-winter:
Life has no end.
The blackbird sings
Under the street-lamp
Oblivious of all theology.
It feels like March.
Only it is December
And I look at the roses, immortal,
In a web of memory.
